


My Brother's Keeper

by Alltheshrinks



Series: This We'll Defend [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Depictions of 9/11, M/M, PTSD, war related violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-06-25 17:30:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19750432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alltheshrinks/pseuds/Alltheshrinks
Summary: Years after Sam and Dean return to the states following the event of Vietnam, Sam becomes a psychiatrist, specializing in PTSD of soldiers and specifically helping his brother piece himself back together from is ordeal during the war.Dean doesn't take Henry's advice and allows himself to be talked into becoming an instructor at West Point, specializing in Stratagy and survival that he learned on his own while in the field in Vietnam. He carves out his own niche with his cadets and is well liked among most of the instructors as well.That's when 9/11 happens and brings all of the old wounds back to the surface, not to mention the fact that the U.S. Hasn't been attcked on its own soil since Pearl Harbor. Both Brothers struggle to reassure their own set of soldiers that things will be fine, when neither are even sure of it themselves. Only by holding on to each other, will they make it.





	1. Chapter 1

New Windsor, New York  
September 10, 2001

Dr. Sam Winchester, inserts the key in the lock and turns the knob on the back door of the home that he shares with his brother, Dean. The early fall days are beginning to shorten, bringing twilight a little earlier each night, not to mention the cornucopia of colors that the leaves are turning. Daytime temperatures are still pleasant and warm, but the nights are cooling rapidly and Sam thinks a frost is on the horizon.

_The couple recently sold their house in Peekskill to purchase a turn of the century, Victorian Style dwelling in neighboring New Windsor. Dean had seen the listing on the back of a trade magazine at the corner convenient store, earlier that spring. The colonel routinely stopped there every morning, on his commute to West Point and had fallen in love with it. He claimed to really love the architecture of the house, but it bore a striking resemblance to the family estate located on Martha's Vineyard, where the psychiatrist and the full bird colonel's father and step-mother resided._

_Retired U.S. Army General, John Winchester, was still a force to be reckoned with. The seventy-six-year-old officer had served in campaigns in Korea, Vietnam, Iran, Panama, Saudi Arabia and Kuwait. He'd only retired after suffering from a case of acute angina during Operation Desert Storm, which lead to a coronary artery disease. He'd threatened the young captain, that was charged with his care, with everything from court-martial to personally fighting the timid physician with hand-to-hand combat._

_The seasoned veteran had called every contact that he had, including General Norman Schwarzkopf, when he'd met a spit-fire nurse on his ward. Dianna Barnes was twelve years younger and although civilian, had been a nurse during the civil rights movement. She wasn't afraid of his larger than life ego or his rank and for the first time since Mary, John allowed himself to love._

_Afraid of what his sons were going to say, John didn't even tell them until he requested (strongly) that they both be present on the day of his nuptials by the ocean. To say that Sam and Dean were puzzled by their father's request, was a vast understatement, but both dressed in the appropriate attire; Sam, dapper and dignified, in a black suit that showed off his tall, well-muscled frame. His still dark hair long and shiny, touching almost the collar of his shirt. Dean, looking as handsome as he always had, in the green of his Class A uniform. The color made his eyes look greener than emeralds and slightly mischievous, even though the slight graying at his temples and crinkles around his eyes, couldn't hide the fact that he wasn't a young man anymore._

_Both of the Winchester siblings had warmed considerably to their new step-mother, whose refusal to take any shit from John, quickly garnered amusement and fondness with both, mixed with an unexpected sort of respect felt by the oldest sibling. In many ways, Dianna was more of John's equal in personality than Mary had been. Mary was still the love of his life and that was never going to change; but even their sons, who were fiercely loyal and protective of the memory of her, reasoned that the kind-hearted soul, who was the matriarch of unruly Winchester clan, would not have wanted the general to live a life of solitude. Mixed in with Dianna's determination to keep her memory alive by asking for stories and rehanging family photos, she was always certain to never seem as if she was trying to replacing her._

The newly fifty-year-old doctor, places his briefcase in the home office and makes his way into the kitchen of the spacious, completely restored and renovated abode. Glancing at he clock, Sam notes that it will be less than an hour until his brother, fifty-four-year-old, Colonel Dean Winchester, will arrive home. West Point is roughly a twenty minute commute, however, the way his sibling drives his black 1967 Chevrolet Impala, the younger male is never surprised when it's much shorter. Usually, Sam can hear the three-hundred-twenty-seven cubic centimeter motor and its four-barrel carburetor, long before it turns up their street. All two-hundred-seventy-five horses of the V-8 engine, churning out a rumble and roar unique to the steel beast representing Detroit's finest. Sam had recently purchased a Hybrid Honda, a penance for all of the sins of fossil fuel and emissions that Dean's beloved baby committed against the environment; it was not an even trade, but Dean was never parting with the third member of their little family unit, and the younger brother had to admit that (even if only to himself) there was something sexy about it, or maybe just the way all that American Muscle revved the colonel's engine.

Sam shivers away his musings, putting an end to a line of thinking that will have him either neglecting dinner or his raging hard-on, neither of which will be a good time since he's been starving all afternoon. Besides, that type of fun is always more fun with company, he can wait the few minutes and start on dinner.

A quick survey of the fridge shows that they have plenty of chicken and vegetables, which Dean will bitch about; but given their father's health and that their grandfather, General Henry Winchester, had died from a heart attack at ninety-two, he wasn't taking any chances. He had lost him once before, besides the uphill battle with his PTSD, Sam was constantly paralyzed by the fear that he would return from school one day, to find his brother had lost the fight. So, Sam would offer a massage, a blowjob and practically anything else to get the officer to eat the chicken that was grilling and the green vegetables with the least resistance possible. It wasn't exactly a chore for Sam and he was guaranteed to enjoy it just as much as the older man.

  
The grill has reached optimal temperature and dinner is less than ten minutes from being ready, when he hears it. It begins as lowly as distant thunder, a throaty growl, echoing down between the rows of historic relics, that are souvenirs of a time much simpler. The sound increases as it bounces off the pavement, guttural, like that of a hibernating bear, interrupted early for spring. Finally, the throttle opens up and Dean turns onto their street, the grumble and groan reaching its pinnacle, while all eight cylinders hammer out beat, a perfect throbbing tempo, pulsing in a perfectly, metered pattern that shakes the house and back deck. The vibrations are nearly hypnotic until suddenly they are gone. Sam is a little surprised to find himself aroused, that after all this time, the thoughts of the older sibling in that inanimate object he arguably loves as much as he does Sam, is a turn on. But here we are, he's straining against the zipper of of his pants, cheeks flushed and this layer of sweat in the hollow of his throat and covering his brow, temple to temple.

He hears the doors to the detached garage, which was styled to match the architecture of the period, shut and then the footsteps of combat boots on concrete, matching a cadence that no one but Dean can hear. Dean's stride perfectly metered as he steps up onto the deck.

"Hey," Sam says, turning away from the food to offer a smile and drink in how beautiful the man still is. Sam isn't sure that he's not more attractive these days; once sculpted and almost delicate features, that were equally masculine, have become stronger, fuller, less carved and more chiseled.

"Hey, yourself," The officer says, removing his Battle Dress Uniform's cover, giving him room to kiss the younger man, without the brim impeding the action. It's just a quick kiss, like the hundreds that they've shared in the past, representing 'hellos, goodbyes, thank yous, you're welcomes, good mornings, good nights, I love yous and I knows,' it has represented hundreds of other things behind the privacy of the fenced in backyard that they don't share with the world.

"Mmmm, this U.S. woodland?" Sam pauses and pulls at the colonel's BDU shirt and the older man nods in agreement, "I'm not a fan of it. The Tiger Stripes brought out your eyes." He kisses the man again, after Dean rolls his eyes at the mention of his eyes.

"Well, that was Special Forces in 'Nam, you know that, Sam. We aren't exactly in the jungle here and the leaf pattern was the standard garb. I have to say, this newer, warm weather gear is so much cooler. They actually breathe and I'm not sweating buckets. The only down fall is, were these issued for jungle use? They would wear out way too soon and I don't know what kind of protection they would have offered." Dean moves a step away and pops a piece of chicken, piled on a platter, in his mouth.

"Wash your hands, colonel." Sam admonishes and Dean grins wickedly and takes another of the small pieces of chicken breast before turning back towards the back door. Sam uses that moment, to land a playful smack on the still perfectly rounded curve of muscles that make up the soldier's ass. The action causes Dean to squawk and glare at his sibling, while rubbing the affected cheek.

"How much longer are you doing survival training this week?" Sam asks, while plating up the chicken, corn on the cob and aluminum foil wrapped vegetables.

"All four days. Leaves are changing quickly this year, why?" Dean is curious, Sam's motives for wanting to know training schedules vary from being completing benign things to being afraid that something from the exercise's objective will cause the officer to have an episode.

  
"That's a shame, your ass looks fantastic in your Class B's." The smile that spreads across the doctor's face is playful and wicked at the same time.

The older brother looks sufficiently affronted by Sam's remark and quips, "Well, I've got a full roster of plebes, that don't care what my ass looks like, as long as it teaches them to survive."

Sam makes a show of looking down at the shorter male's posterior region and with an exaggerated groan, he licks his lips and the soldier's eyes widen, pupils dilating and his cheeks pink up. "Don't sell yourself short, its a very nice ass."

Dean snorts, ending it in a chuckle and shakes his head, moment broken. They gather up the food, seasonings, and sauces, carrying everything indoors and to the table in the kitchen. Sam retrieves two beers from the stainless steel fridge, while Dean lays out two plates and cutlery on the small breakfast table where the brothers eat the majority of their meals.

"How was your day?" Sam asks, as he twists the top from one of the bottles and then hands it over to the soldier.

The colonel nods his thanks as the metal of his class ring clinks against the glass of the proffered beverage. "I don't ever remember being that young. If I have to shout, ‘Your military left,’ one more freaking time, I'll magic marker left and right on everything they own." Dean shakes his head a takes a long drawl of his before smirking at Sam.

"Trust me, you were that young. If dad hadn't had us marching by the time we could walk, you'd have struggled just as much. Besides, it was war time when you were at the point, we've been at peace for a long time. Being the best and the brightest of the Army doesn't mean as much, because they don't think that they will ever have to go through what you and several of the other instructors did.

Dean is silent, the way his brow furrows, Sam knows that something isn't sitting right with the older brother, but, he lets it go.

"What about your day?" The officer asks, making a face as he shoves broccoli in his mouth.

"Same shit, different day. It never gets easier listening to men and women who have seen nightmares beyond belief shrug off their PTSD and claim that they are fit for duty.” The silence that stretches on from his sibling is a clear indication that Dean agrees with those soldiers to some extent; Dean trusts his brother and knows that he's the brains of the family, so if he claims that PTSD is a real thing, Dean's going to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The brothers finish their meals laughing about mundane things, such as how far the Yankees were going to go in the series and Dean's thoughts on the horrible, horrible noise that passed for music on the radio these days. Last Christmas, Sam had gifted him with an adaptor for the Impala, allowing him to play CD's without altering his car any further. It continually blew Sam's mind that his sibling could program all manner explosives, operate the necessary computers for satellite images, and even pilot aircraft and navigate their trajectories accurately, but couldn't program their VCR.

_When Dean accepted the promotion to major when he and Sam returned to the states in 1973, he had every intention of following his grandfather's advice and riding a desk until his time was up, then he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do. He was, in fact, a college graduate, but he couldn't think of a practical application of his special field of study beyond the battle field._

_Then the calls from West Point, asking him to consider a position as a Survival Instructor and a Professor of Battlefield Strategy, began rolling in and finally one of the superior officers from his own West Point days had shown up and had a brief meeting with the sought after major._

_Dean had been sitting in a nylon and aluminum framed fishing chair, letting the waves crash at his feet, wetting everything from the insteps of his soles, to the bend of his golden legs. The water was slightly chilly, stereotypical of the normal temperatures of the Atlantic, the farther north you dared to venture. The shadow had been long, daylight was burning as summer was beginning to fade into the colder temperatures of fall. The major, incidentally on R &R, let the figure speak before reacting._

_"I have heard many times how idyllic it is up here on Cape Cod," the soft , but firm tone of the man's voice demanded attention, while his honey-sweet charm lulled anyone in ear-shot into a false sense of peace. As soon as the dulcet tones started, Dean scrambled to his feet, the sand making him shiver slightly, cold squeezing in between the toes of his bare feet. He snapped to attention, dressed in board shorts and a sleeveless tank, that displayed the definition in his broad shoulders and muscled biceps._

_"At ease, Dean," Lieutenant Colonel Chuck Shurley gestured, allowing the younger officer to sit back down in the worn chair. The soft soft spoken army colonel took his own seat on the metal cooler that was sitting in the sand next to the major._

_"Welcome home, major, it's good to have you back." The sincerity of the linguist that taught at West Point was genuine and it was something that made him one of his favorite superiors. "When we'd heard, it was a sad day for a lot of us there, you were supposed to be the best of the best. Your test scores surpassed even those of your father and the general, plus the younger students liked you, would have followed you any where. That was something that not even the colonel could accomplish."_

_"Did he send you? Try to talk me into returning to active duty once my term is up?" Dean refused to meet the man's eyes. He fought the bile in his throat at the mention of war or the gunshots that keep him up at night._

_"Actually no, this is an offer from the Point. They want you to come teach there. Strategy and survival tactics that were not exactly helpful when we were teaching it. They think that you are one of the most qualified for the job, teaching young men to survive in warfare that is less than conventional."_

_"Colonel..." The younger man sighs, burying his hands in his face._

_"Chuck, please. We are off duty and equals as far as I'm concerned. You're one hell of an soldier." The smile the older man offers is soft, understanding and Dean hears him out._

_"You'd have to attend The National War College as well as the U.S. Army's War College before being qualified, but that will put Sam in prime locations to attend two of the top notch Medical Schools in the United States. I'm sure if you agree to come back to work for Uncle Sam, tuition won't be a problem."_

_Dean's mind reeled, all Sam had talked about since Colonel Campbell's death had been going to Medical School. He wanted to know what would make a seasoned veteran essentially abandon everything that he had pledged his life for to hide away with a group of natives. To leave his family behind, his extremely ill daughter and hold his grandsons hostage. What psychosis would make him subject his oldest to tortures that were beyond brutal._

_After two sleepless nights, Dean made the decision that sending Sam to Medical school and helping train soldiers to the best of his ability, was the right thing to do. He could try to atone for all the soldiers that he couldn't save and stop dwelling on the fact that he was the first Winchester who had let battle get to him and given up; he was stronger than this._

_Talking Sam into letting him return to active duty was harder than the older brother had first thought, but he persisted with his unwavering sympathy and unyielding anger that he still felt for the government's lack of concern for undertrained, underaged troops, and his brother relented. The ability to attend top notch Medical Schools were the icing on the cake._

_Dean's initial education required that he attend a Master's Program at the U.S. Army War College in Pennsylvania, while Sam attended Medical School at Penn State University in neighboring University Park. Those three years were as far from perfect as either brother could have imagined._

_Dean's nightmares kept both siblings awake many hours a night and even when he'd taken to sleeping on the couch in the living room, Sam found that his troubled thoughts kept him from resting until exhaustion overtook him. Dean struggled with his studies and often clashed with the higher ranked instructors about the tactics that should be taught to the soldiers that would be leading troops into an ever changing world of warfare. Vietnam was nothing like Korea, which was nothing like WWI or WWII._

_Dean's only saving grace was who his father and grandfather were, not to mention that he had survived the Hilton and helped put and end to Colonel Campbell's reign of terror. A lot of the other students listened to what he had to say and eventually even his superiors decided that the young major knew what he was taking about in regards to guerrilla warfare._

_By the time Dean graduated from the Army's War College in Pennsylvania, it was time to move on to Washington, D.C. and start his classes at the National War College. Sam had also completed his studies at Penn State and was to begin his residency at Georgetown University, focusing on research and psychiatry. Those years were tiring, but not nearly as bad as the previous years, Sam learned how to handle his brother's nightmares earlier and even got him to release some of his guilt. Colonel Samuel Campbell ad been suffering from is own type of mental stress and it had twisted and tormented the man until he saw everyone as the enemy, even his own flesh and blood. Making his oldest grandson feel responsible for the killing of dozens of his troops as well as the three sailors on the Patrol Boat, Riverine, was the act of a man who was nothing short of sick._

_Dean was promoted to lieutenant colonel three days before Sam completed his residency and was a full fledged psychiatrist. Both men were shocked to see John and Henry at their respective ceremonies and the dinner that followed. Henry had spared no expense inviting the army's brass out to be introduced to his two brave and intelligent grandsons._

_Sam was sure to redirect conversations away from Dean's time in captivity as well as all questions about how neither brother was present with a partner of the female persuasion. Sam's answer was sympathetic when it came to Dean, "He's having a hard time finding someone who is understanding about the things he endured at the Hilton. As for me? I've had my hands full with a lot of school." The answers along with a scowl at the asking parties pretty much stopped that line of questioning._

*******

  
_Sam and Dean move to the small town Peekskill, Dean begining his classes at West Point and Sam continued his research, that was made possibly by is grandfather, to find the best and safest treatment for soldiers that were suffering from PTSD. He studied treatments with and without drug therapy and Dean nine times out of ten became his guinea pig. Not that Dean relished the thought of taking medication, or talking about his issues, but he was selfless enough that he figured te treatment couldn't screw him up any worse._

_Dean bonded with his cadets better than any of the other seasoned officers of the faculty; his easy demeanor and known status as a hero of the Vietnam War, helped to ease his soldiers minds. He wasn't the type to stand behind his men and use them as cannon fodder and there were plenty of stories of how he was right in the front line leading the charge; his men respected that._

_Sam was making a lot of headway in understanding how soldiers' mind processed all the death and torture of their comrades. They not only remembered trauma, try became caught in he moment, relieving the fear and trapped with no way to escape until it finally played out._

It's shortly after 8 when then the dishes are cleaned up and the siblings settle in to watch tv, it's a stupid reality to show that both make way too many off color jokes about before Dean yawns loudly and stretches as he stands from the couch.

Sam notices and asks, "Turning in?"

"Yeah, its my turn to lead the run in the morning. No way in hell a bunch of kids are going to out run me. I held the medal for all for years at the Point, thats not changing."

*******

  
Showers taken, teeth brushed and covers turned down, Sam. Settled his head onto chest of the already snoring sibling. He didn't dare wake his brother up, since sleep was still sometimes a luxury they weren't afforded.

Had Sam realized that tomorrow morning that their world would once again be turned upside down, he'd have woken his brother and spent the entire night letting him know exactly how much he loved him. The Winchester's lives never worked that way.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean wakes up at 0400 the next morning and tries not to disturb Sam, which he isn't at all successful at. A couple of gentle kisses to the doctor's forehead and cheek, followed by one or two light pecks to parted lips, mixed with a few whispered words of reassurances and endearments and the younger man is quietly snoring against his pillow again; Dean slips out of the large, California King and into the bathroom.

The colonel showers as quickly and efficiently as possible, the hot water wars with the terry cloth washcloth, both trying to leave their own angry shade of pink on the soldier's skin as he scrubs himself almost viciously. He saves the shampooing of his hair until last, which only takes a couple of minutes. The soldier had finally given in and gotten his hair cut in the high-and-tight style that many of the younger troops favored these days, after months of wheedling from his brother. Sam had thought that Dean would look ridiculously hot with the haircut, and his approval had been very vocal. Dean had appreciated the younger sibling's tenacity and persistence, but had ultimately given in for a completely different reason; the officer's hair was starting to gray around the temples and by having it buzzed as close as possible, it was good camouflage.

After grabbing his coffee and a package of frosted, strawberry Pop Tarts, Sam won't like it but Dean doesn't have time to eat a healthy breakfast this morning, the soldier points the Impala towards West Point and his cadets. He's actually looking forward to these first few weeks of basic survival training and teaching his students how to survive in combat situations and behind enemy lines in ways that he was never afforded.

It's still dark when Dean pulls the black Chevrolet into the cadre parking lot next to a navy blue Jeep and opens the door. He's met by the friendly smile of Major Joanna Harvelle, who teaches basic rifle maneuvers and is one of the best shots he's ever seen. Jo was also a member of the first graduating class that had included females in attendance to the academy and also the first female instructor.

"Good morning, colonel," she salutes and falls in on his right side, automatically matching his stride and syncing her movements with his.

"Good morning, major," Dean returns the greeting and continues up on the sidewalk towards the door to the facility's offices. He pauses to hold the door open for the other officer; this may be the twenty-first century, but Dean is still an officer and a gentleman. He also out ranks the major, so she doesn't dare say anything about his antiquated gesture.

"Still doing training in the field, sir?" She asks, taking in the camouflage of his battle dress uniform in the twilight of the morning. Her gaze is perhaps a little friendlier than Dean would normally feel comfortable with, except that fraternization is frowned upon, and even if it wasn't, Dean is a social pariah. All of his commendations and service ribbons can not make up for the fact that Dean isn't good with people outside of a combat situation. He's liked and respected well enough by his colleagues and students that it isn't a problem, but the colonel doesn't exactly have what he would call friends.

  
*******

  
Sam pushes the door open to his office an stops to greet his office manager slash receptionist, "Good morning, Bethany."

Bethany is a twenty-three-year-old, red-head, who barely comes up to Sam's shoulder. She's organized and incredibly sweet to all of his patients and Sam is thankful that he found the young woman right after she completed community college.

"Good Morning, Dr. Winchester." The girl says, handing him a couple of folders and and a cup that is still steaming. "Here are your charts for Mrs. Montgomery and Mrs. Taylor, who are your nine and ten o'clocks', and here's your coffee." She offers him a warm smile.

Sam returns her smile and and takes the items, "Thank you, I don't know what I'd do without you." Sam's reply is genuine an filled with affection for his assistant.

He is opening the door to his office when she adds, "There are also some form on your desk that need to be signed and Mrs. Chapman called again to ask about getting Robbie's medication increased again." She says with a grimace.

Sam groans, "Okay, call her and set up and appointment to see him. I'm not increasing it over the phone." Robbie Chapman suffers from ADD and his mother has been angling for a medication increase for a long time. Sam has so far refused, but it doesn't hurt to talk to the boy.

Bethany nods her agreement and turns to pick up the phone from the corner of her desk.

  
*******

  
Dean is writing down items to look for based on specific environments, on the white dry erase board, when the sounds from the other classrooms start to echo down the hallway and into his classroom. They start as monotone voice-over from a newscaster, then change into the murmurings of what he can only guess are confused students.

He's getting ready to close the door, when Lieutenant Colonel Eric Pine sticks his head in the door. "Colonel Winchester? I've been sent by General Lennox to inform the faculty and students that at approximately 0846, a Boeing 767 impacted one tower of the World Trade Center." The man gestures toward the television that is on a cart with wheels on it and is pushed to the corner of the classroom. "Then at 0903, the other tower was hit by another, what appears to be a hijacked plane."

Dean allows the man to roll the stand to the front of the aisle of his seated pupils and tune the station to a Fox News' broadcast. There isn't any footage of the towers playing, it's just the anchors talking about 'terrorism' and 'acts of aggression on American soil' and Dean feels his world tilt a little. He wasn't born when Pearl Harbor happened, but he had heard his father and grandfather recall their own disturbing memories of that otherwise quiet Sunday morning in December of 1941, to know that this is probably how they had felt.

It was extremely violating, to have U.S. Soil attacked, Dean's world has not only been turned upside down and inside out, he's fairly certain the all of the contents have been shaken out of it, and then been scooped up in a pile and dumped back inside.

Dean swallows hard, trying to force the rising bile in his throat back down before he vomits and stave off the closing of his throat. Time slows down to a near stop, halting everything in agonizing slow motion. For a full hundred-twenty seconds, the colonel is trapped in the jungle. He can smell the stagnant water and pungent aroma of the lush vegetation, mixed in with gunpowder around him. There are explosions going off, the sounds bouncing off the canopy of leaves and the gunfire is unending. He takes his M7 knife and cuts his 'shute loose from his body as well his rank and identifying insignia on his uniform. He can feel the grease paint trapping the moisture between it and his skin and the sweat and humidity clinging to his body; it's collecting at the nape of his neck and the small of his back.

"Sir," Colonel Pine asks, taking in the suddenly pale and shocked expression on the other man's face.

Time lurches forward so suddenly that Dean is dizzy, he sways to the side, before gripping the edge of his desk to steady himself. "M'fine," he assures the man, shaking the flashback from his thoughts and focusing on the television screen.

  
*******

  
Sam leads Mrs. Montgomery to the door and Bethany is looking at her computer screen like she has seen a ghost. "What is it?" The doctor asks before ushering his next patient back into his office.

Bethany has a grim expression on her face when she glances up and says, "A plane flew into one of the towers of The World Trade Center," the young woman doesn't pause before adding, "Then a second plane struck the other tower, they are calling it terrorists."

All Sam can do is cover his mouth and stare in horror as the computer screen shows footage of two planes flying into the large, twin towers that have become a fixture in the New York, Skyline.

His thoughts immediately go to his brother and what that must mean for him; to see the country that he so ardently defended to be attacked. He hopes that Dean won't have an episode, it's been years since he's had one, but this is just the type of trigger that can induce his PTSD, hurling the older sibling into the waking nightmare of his time in Vietnam.

He wants nothing more than to hear his brother's voice and to reassure himself that Dean is okay, and he has already picked up the phone and begun dialing the number to his brother's office before he stops. Dean is teaching and he is nowhere near his desk and even if he was, Sam isn't a fourteen-year-old girl. Sam chastises himself and calls Mrs. Taylor back into his office and gets to work on a problem that he may be able to help.

  
*******

  
Dean moves right along with teaching his class of plebes how to survive in a freak sand storm, trying not to think about what this act of terrorism means for him and his group of cadets. He says nothing when the announcement is made that all personnel must carry their military I.D., which is not big deal since he always carries his anyway.

The colonel is more than a little upset when the announcement comes that the academy is on lockdown and no one is allowed on or off post until further notice, but he's spent years working on his poker face. He's also a lead by example type of officer and is careful to not react to the news. Inside, he is quietly screaming at the thought of spending the night away from Sam and his stomach threatens to rebel. Deciding that vomiting is probably not the image he want to project either, Dean wills the impulse down. After taking several deep breaths, he feels better, even if only marginally so.

  
By the time that his last class of the day is over, which is a strategy class for third years, he decides that he's put off calling Sam for long enough. He allows himself to fall into the leather chair in his office and quickly dials the number to his brother's cell phone.

"Hello," Sam picks up on the third ring and it is music to the older male's ears.

"Sammy? God, it's good to hear your voice, this has been the craziest day ever," Dean sounds exasperated and a bit nervous and Sam can't help but feel his heart rate spike at whatever has his sibling out of sorts.

"Dean? What's wrong?" Sam is sure he sounds demanding and slightly scared, but he doesn't care. He never subscribed to his father's ideals of never showing fear or weaknesses and the psychiatrist in him knows that shoving all of those emotions down will only cause problems in the future.

"Nothing," His sibling answers coolly, all of the earlier emotion gone from his voice. "They've locked the base down, no one gets on or off until further notice."

"What? Why?" Sam is aware that he sounds like a petulant adolescent, used to getting their way.

"Think Sam," Dean's voice is calm and collected, despite feeling like he's going to spin-out at any moment, he gathers his wits about him and reasons with the younger Winchester. "The majority of the future U.S. Army leaders all in one place? Not to mention that we are only sixty miles from where it happened and I gotta tell you, Sam, this place isn't exactly as secure as Fort Knox." Dean sounds exhausted over the receiver and Sam has to remind himself again that Dean will always feel the effects of his time in Hanoi, that no amount of time or distance will completely scrub it from his memory.

"I get it, Dean. Just promise me that you'll take care of you, too." Sam knows that he would have better luck talking to a brick wall.

"Yeah, Sammy, I will." The colonel clears his throat before speaking again, "I miss you, Sam." _I love you_.

"I miss you, too." _I love you, too._ Is Sam's reply and then the line goes dead and Sam is left waiting and wondering when he will get to see his brother again


End file.
